


Like Stars Being Hung By Only String

by nikirik



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:23:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikirik/pseuds/nikirik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Would he miss Lewis if he'll be gone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Stars Being Hung By Only String

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: unbetaed, quotes and title from William Fitzsimmons – I Don't Feel It Anymore and W.Pater "The School of Giorgione". I don't usually write angst, ' cause I have plenty of that in RL, so it's an exception, sorry.  
> An episode-related fic written for the lewis-challenge.livejournal.com Season 7 Fanwork Challenge: 7.2.

James sits beneath Lewis. Six years before it would be him leaning, forgetting the private space. Now he is curled in the corner of the bench, burning his fingertips with the cigarette. He feels out of tune, like a fish on a string out of the water, not caught, but not free. Unable to decide for himself, only able to cry inwardly.   
All these years, they were a waste, weren't they?   
It cuts deep, and his hand trembles.   
It's like time ate his youth and he can't have it back, the freshness and naivity.  
Only the feeling of loss is that's left.  
He's not sure how he manages not to cry.   
It's the anchor he craves for, while knowing the ship's sinking.  
Would he miss Lewis if he'll be gone?  
Would you miss a bone in your body?  
 _No map can direct how to ever make it home_ , he thinks absently. We'll just continue to fall into this crack between us, until there'll be no hand ehough to reach or name to call out.   
He lifts his gaze to the sky almost praying: God, _take it all away,I don't feel it anymore_.  
Only he does, and it hurts more than anything has before, loosing hope, all colours fading.  
Is love really just a  _momentary touch of an instrument in the twilight, as one passes through some unfamiliar room in a chance company_? Are all souls constantly aspiring towards the condition of love?   
Will his love heal like a cut, first ugly and aching, then slightly becoming of no importance?   
Or will it stay forever with him like the appetite for sweet sound, like some heavy bruise transforming into tattoo?  
He's dying to know, ain't he?


End file.
